


my sewn together heart

by TheSushiMonster



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Flash Forward, Flashbacks, Minor Character Death, sorry spoiler robb's dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-12 15:09:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19948234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSushiMonster/pseuds/TheSushiMonster
Summary: “Sansa Stark?”“Yes?” Her blanket is thin across her lap and the fan creaks as it spins, but she still feels hot.“This is Westeros Hospital - we have you listed as the emergency contact for Theon Greyjoy.”ORThe "we haven't spoken for ages but you're still listed as my emergency contact" AU.





	my sewn together heart

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday to... me. Please leave me comments/kudos to wake up to as a birthday present?
> 
> Thank you, Margot, for looking this over for me! Also for Ariane, because this was based off one of her tweets.
> 
> Fic (and section) titles from "Rescue" by James Bay.

****

******i. the more you love, the harder you fall**

_Sansa frowns and pushes Theon’s feet off the coffee table. “No shoes on the table.”_

_Rolling his eyes and smirking, Theon pulls the paper in his hands closer, spinning a pen over his fingers. “Okay, Mum.”_

_Sansa sighs and turns to the other side of the couch, where Robb reads the paper in his lap - on a book, resting on his bent knees - with a small frown. “Why do we let him into the house?”_

_“Because you’re my family more than my biological one,” says Theon flatly from behind her. Wincing, Sansa glances over her shoulder to offer him a smile but Theon waves it off. “No worries. Just let me put you down as my emergency contact.”_

_Robb taps his pen against the book. “Hey, I’m using Sansa. Find your own emergency contact.”_

_Sansa leans back on the couch, arms crossed, elbow lightly touching both of them. “Why aren’t you putting down Mum or Dad? Or even Jon?”_

_Robb and Theon exchange a look. Theon shifts and watches her as he rubs the back of his neck, his pen spinning faster. “You’re the most responsible Stark.” Sansa blinks, shocked and absolutely touched. That they would think_ she _was the best choice - Theon blinks and shakes his head. “Besides, Jon would probably let me die and if we’re in the emergency room we wouldn’t want Ned or Cat to worry.”_

 _Robb chuckles beside her but for some reason, Sansa can’t look away from Theon. “If you’re in the emergency room they_ should _worry.”_

_Theon’s eyes darken but Robb throws an arm over her shoulder and pulls her closer. Her brother smiles warmly, and Sansa feels herself relax in his embrace. “Sansa, if Theon or I get into trouble, we know you’d know exactly what to do.” He ruffles her hair despite her grimace. “You’re the smartest person we know, obviously.”_

_Sansa sighs and doesn’t protest when they both write down_ Sansa Stark _after ‘emergency contact.’_

  
  


The second time she receives a call from the hospital, it’s just past midnight on a summer evening. She had just climbed into bed. Frowning at the unfamiliar number, she hesitantly answers.

“Sansa Stark?”

“Yes?” Her blanket is thin across her lap and the fan creaks as it spins, but she still feels hot.

“This is Westeros Hospital - we have you listed as the emergency contact for Theon Greyjoy.” 

She hasn’t heard that name in so long - shadows lining his face beneath his gray hoodie, hands twisted in his lap, chapped lips and haunted eyes that couldn’t quite stay steady as the casket was lowered into the ground - but her heart still jumps in her throat. “Is everything alright?”

“I’m not at liberty to say until we have verified your identity. Can we expect to see you tonight?” The caller is cold, mechanical, and Sansa understands it’s their _job_ , that they do this every day and every night, but the shock and worry and exhaustion collide in her head. 

Sansa exhales. “I’m heading over now.”

  
  


The visions are inescapable on the ride over. Flashes of Robb laughing and Theon smirking; of a frustrated Robb and a blasé Theon; of Robb dead and Theon practically the same. Her family falling apart and scattered and Theon bone-thin and shaking on her doorstep, a cigarette barely held between his fingers. 

_I want to help you._

_You can’t. Tell Robb I’m sorry._

_Robb’s dead._

_I know._

Her hands grip the steering wheel tightly and her teeth grind against each other. That last image of Theon - the gray hoodie, ripped jeans, pale skin and chapped lips and dull eyes - haunts her. At the funeral, he avoided them all, kept to himself, and disappeared once fresh dirt covered every inch of the casket. No calls, no texts, no letters.

To Sansa, Theon’s a ghost.

But he’s alive, now she knows, and she’s still his emergency contact.

Maybe this time she won’t arrive just to say goodbye.

  
  


_The heavy doors and white walls feel like a movie - like she’s not really living her life, just watching it. An observer. Somewhere between the phone call and her arrival, the numbness settles in her bones, unfeeling and cold._

_Sansa always found hospitals cold._

_Walking up to a nurse and giving his name -_ Robb Stark, I’m his sister, I’m his emergency contact, what happened, is he okay? _\- Sansa holds her breath for a moment. Life pauses, the tip of a cliff, no gravity and no sea, just the air and the anticipation of the next second, the next moment, the next event._

_The nurse doesn’t smile. She just looks sad._

_And Sansa doesn’t need to hear it. She knows._

I’m so sorry.

 _Sansa backs up, shaking, and collapses into a chair. The nurse kneels in front of her, never saying the word, but it’s in every pause, every break, every breath._ Dead dead dead dead deaddeaddeaddead -

_The nurse is now Theon, hands on her knees, eyes bright and blue and familiar, and Sansa doesn’t bother to try and stop or hide the tears. They fall, heavy and fast, and Theon catches them on his shoulder when he sits beside her. His arms find their place around her and she sobs, and somewhere in the back of her mind - the part that detaches itself from the rest of her - notes that Theon shakes with twitching fingers and a hardened jaw. He breaks with each sob that heaves from her lungs, embraces it too, until her fingers clutch at his shirt and he holds her tighter too._

_Robb dies that night, and Sansa knows a part of both her and Theon do, too._

**ii. i would rather hurt than nothing at all**

_“Can I have the keys?” He almost hates himself for whispering, but Sansa looks so small, her eyes blank and lips still. Theon recognizes the signs immediately; she’s shut down, removed herself from the moment, because she feels too much and loves so hard that it’s too difficult to be present anymore._

_Theon understands. He just needs outside help to become numb._

_Sansa pushes her purse forward and Theon reaches in and searches for her keys. There’s so much in her bag - he remembers that she’s always prepared, always having the thing that he didn't even know he would need - but his fingers curl around the key chain and he unlocks the door._

_As he guides Sansa inside, Theon tries not to think too much. He tries not to analyze the situation - his best friend is dead, his best friend’s sister (and the girl he’s would take a bullet for) is a mess, and he’s trying to hold it all together when he’s inches away from falling apart - while he guides her to the living room sofa._

_Sansa tugs on his sleeve. “Sit with me?” Theon sinks down beside her without a word. Resting her head on shoulder, his arm wrapped around his waist, Sansa tries not to shake. “Thank you.”_

_Theon tries not to breathe when he whispers into her hair. “Always.” He doesn’t want to smell her, vanilla and roses and Sansa, because it’s already too much. Sansa is relying on him, but he doesn’t deserve it - doesn’t deserve_ her - _but here she is, in his arms._

_And Robb’s dead._

_And Theon deserves much worse._

_Theon wakes up a handful of hours later with a stiff neck and a numb arm. Carefully, he slips from beneath her. The cracks in his heart have splintered and turned into black holes, spreading and consuming until he feels nothing._

_With the last bit of logical thought, Theon scribbles a quick note._ Call me if you need to talk. _It rests beside her purse._

_The craving is too much. It’s been too long. His throat is dry and his fingers are twitching and the emotions are rising too fast and too loudly and he needs silence, he needs the comfort of pain to hide the guilt._

_He deserves the pain._

_He doesn’t deserve Sansa._

_So with one last look at her - sleeping peacefully, despite the heartache - Theon leaves._

  
  


His hand hurts.

Theon has encountered plenty of pain in his life - punches to the face, fists to the ribs, track marks along his arm, twisted fingers and bruised legs, blood in his teeth - but somehow, the broken bones in his hand hurt a hell of a lot worse than most of them.

Physically, at least.

Emotionally, he feels fine.

Maybe he’s numb. There’s a clarity to his mind, for once, sobriety apparently agreeing with him. But that presence of mind combines with the sharp realization that, truly, nothing really _hurts_ \- but that’s not okay, because he’s breathing and living and - 

Well, maybe he shouldn’t be. Others aren’t. 

Curly red hair, wrestling in the grass, soft smiles and gentle nudges, barked laughter and pointed glares - Theon misses _him_ with an ache that can’t be fixed, a hole carved out in his heart stuffed with cotton and ecstacy, leaking with blood and unshed tears.

Theon swallows and focuses on the pain in his hand.

It hurts.

Broken bones tend to do so.

Theon declines the pain medicine. “I’m an addict,” he says, without a hint of bitterness or shakiness, to his own surprise - only resignation - and suffers. But suffering feels _good_ , when everything else feels good too, besides his broken heart and shattered soul.

Yara is happy and successful, with his help. His mother is breathing and living and looks healthier every day. His father is dead and his uncles too. 

And his other family - those still alive, from what he hears - are happy too.

That’s all Theon really asks for.

So when Sansa Stark rushes into his hospital room, shoving curtains out of the way, Theon forgets to breathe.

“Sansa?”

She freezes in front of his bed, strands of hair protruding from her messy ponytail and the collar of an oversized t-shirt falling off her shoulder. Her hands slowly rest on the railing of his bed. “Theon.” Her fingers grip harder and he can’t look away from those perfectly manicured nails; the pale yellow feels like a contrast to her baggy t-shirt and floral skirt. “What happened?”

Drawing his arm closer to his chest, Theon avoids her eyes. He still remembers them - bright blue, like the ocean on a sunny day, tiny ripples glittering in the sunlight whenever she smiled - but right now they only remind him of Robb and happier times and _before_. Instead, he talks to his broken hand. “Why are you here?”

She flinches in the corner of his eye, and Theon can’t stop his grimace. Her voice softens a little, but there’s a weight in each syllable, her words cracking. “They called me.” Theon closes his eyes before the memory can overwhelm him. “I’m still your - ”

“Emergency contact,” says Theon, almost laughing, mostly bitter. Finally, he braves looking at her. She looks… _artfully_ arranged: her hair messy, but purposefully so; a baggy shirt in contrast to a tight skirt; a face pale and glowing without make-up. Theon notices her twisting her hands in front of her, a nervous tick she’d never grown out of. He notices her eyes never quite meet his, a hint of something familiar hidden in the corners.

Sadness.

Regret.

Pain.

And that’s _too_ familiar.

Something deep within him cracks. Maybe it’s the thin cardboard plastered over the hole in his chest, a foolhardy attempt at patching up the broken wall he’s erected around his heart. It’s _Sansa Stark_ , worried about _him_ , the kindness in her soul leaking like wisps of smoke. Whereas Theon is numb, drowned and flooded over, Sansa is burning inside.

Sansa doesn’t look happy. She looks worried and panicked and _upset_ \- 

“Leave.” It’s too much. She’s too familiar, _this_ is too familiar, and his fingers itch for a cigarette. His gut itches for something much stronger. Theon grinds his teeth. “You need to leave.”

Sansa flinches as if slapped. “What?” There’s a flicker of fire escaping into her eyes. “Theon, you’re _hurt_ and I’m here for you and I don’t want you to be alone - ”

“I’m not _alone_ ,” Theon says, quite defensively, but he can’t help it. He _should_ be alone. “I called Yara, she’s on her way.”

“Your sister lives hours away. I’m not going anywhere.” She’s closer now, and her hand lingers by his leg, and if she touches him, Theon thinks he might melt.

But he’s wound up too tight and he might snap instead. “Sansa. I don’t need you. _Leave_.”

It’s not a lie. Theon _doesn’t_ need her. He’s finally, maybe, gotten to that point where he doesn’t _need_ anyone, just himself and probably his therapist. But gods, with her standing here, bright blue eyes shining again and red hair swaying when she shakes her head… 

He wants her to be there. He wants her to stay.

His hand throbs.

Sansa’s eyes narrow. “I’ll leave if you tell me why you’re so angry at me. If anything - ” her hard voice cuts off, as if the memory is too haunting, too difficult. Theon understands that.

She’s also not wrong. She never really was. “I’m not angry,” he says, because pretending otherwise is too hard. It’s too exhausting to pretend to be angry, especially at her; Theon learned that long ago. That’s why he left in the first place. “You don’t need to be here.”

“ _You_ left us, Theon.” Her fingers graze his thigh, goosebumps left in their wake. “You left _me_.” Her hand lightly rests on his shin but Theon can only look at her face, at the way the smoke clears and the fire burns and despite the time and distance, Theon’s heart still slips through his fingers into hers. 

“I had to.” Theon closes his eyes, exhales, and hardens his resolve. “I couldn’t - ” Another sigh, another memory - of Robb, grinding his teeth, snapping needles and locking cabinets. “It was too much.”

Her hand tightens. Theon feels his chest tighten too. Sansa softens a little, despite her heavy presence at his side and in his heart. “Don’t push me away, Theon.” 

“Leave, Sansa. You don’t need to be here.”

Her fingers trace something across his skin - a word, maybe, but he can’t really tell. Instead, Sansa sighs. “Okay.”

When she turns and leaves, Theon ignores the disappointment that threatens to crush him.

His hand hurts too much.

  
  


_Once the casket is buried, Sansa sees him._

_He’s hiding behind a tree, shaking with dull eyes. It’s nothing like the flashes of the hospital - his arm around her, her face buried in his shoulder - and it’s another crack in her ribs._

_A hand lands on her arm. Without looking, Sansa knows it’s Arya. And when her little sister speaks she does so softly, despite her harsh words. “You can’t help him.”_

_“I know,” she says - truthfully, because Theon sinks to the ground, chewed-off nails digging into his own skin. “But I wish…”_

_Arya shakes her head. “Don’t.”_

_So Sansa keeps it herself. The thought vibrates, an annoying buzz in the back of her head. She wants to help him, like he had helped her. He saved her once - not quite the knight of her dreams - in a hoodie and jeans and with a bitter smirk. And now, when he’s falling apart and broken, Sansa can’t save him too._

_All she can do is hope he can save himself._

_Sansa closes her eyes and turns away._

  
  


**iii. through the good, through the bad, through the lonely**

“How are you feeling, Mr. Greyjoy?” The nurse reaches for the blood pressure cuff. 

Theon sighs. “Fine.” Gingerly, he stretches out his arm, the blue cast holding his bones in place. “Itchy.”

The nurse smiles at him sympathetically. “Sadly, a side effect you’ll have to endure.” She bites her lip. “How is the pain?”

Theon knows his smile is probably more like a grimace. “Bearable.” The nurse continues to stare at him, as if chewing on something further. “What?”

“The young lady in your room earlier - ”

Theon sits straighter. “Is she okay?”

The knowing smile on the nurse’s lip isn’t quite as annoying as it probably ought to be. “She fell asleep in the waiting room.” Theon barely hears her over the blood racing through his heart. _She’s still there, she stayed, she waited for him._ “Should I ask her to come in?”

“No.” Theon speaks before his thoughts can catch up to his throat, but it’s too late for any regret. His unbroken hand reaches for his phone. “No it’s fine.”

The nurse says nothing but simply nods, and makes a note on his chart before leaving.

Scrolling through his phone, Theon pauses at a number he hasn’t called in far too long. Sighing, he resigns himself to his fate.

The phone rings.

Eventually, she picks up.

“What the fuck do you want?”

Arya Stark has a way of crawling under Theon’s skin even with the best intentions. Maybe it’s the wolf in her, the protective streak that used to extend over him and now extends _through_ him, like a sword through his chest. Whatever it is, she sounds _mad_.

Theon tries not to sigh. “I’m in the hospital and they called and Sansa - and I need you to pick her up.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are, kicking her out of your room?” This time, Theon winces, almost decrying the apparent closeness Sansa and Arya have recovered after a rather tumultuous childhood. Sansa must have called Arya - _was it last night? This morning_. Theon almost doesn’t want to know. “Sansa deserves better than that, especially from you.”

“I know.”

“She cares about you, you know? I can’t fucking understand it, but she cares about you, despite abandoning her, despite all the fucked up shit you got yourself involved in.” Arya pauses, a moment where he can almost imagine a softening in her features. He probably _does_ imagine it. “Bran says you’re clean now.”

Or maybe he doesn’t. “Yeah.”

Arya is quiet and it’s unnerving. Theon tries to scratch his nose before remembering the giant cast on his arm and the throbbing pain in his hand. When Arya speaks, it almost sounds strained, but there’s an edge of something else, something familiar. 

Almost like guilt.

“The night - after the hospital. I think you dropped Sansa at home and left… and I found the note you wrote.” A heavy sigh. “I threw it out. Robb was dead and I - I saw him, and she didn’t, and I talked to him and she _couldn’t_ and you - you were there and you were always high or drunk and Sansa… she didn’t _need_ that, not from you.” 

“You’re right.”

“And the funeral - Sansa…”

“You didn’t want me to drag her down.” Theon rests his head against the wall, closes his eyes, and almost smiles with a sigh. “You were right.”

“But you’re better now,” says Arya, somewhat like a question but mostly like a fact. “You have your shit together and now you just need to get your head and heart on the same page.”

Theon wonders: is he really better now? Does he really have shit together? Sure, he’s sober and he can think clearly and it’s so easy to avoid the bars and the clubs and to stick to water and coffee. 

But he knows what his head thinks. “I’m not better, Arya. I don’t think I ever will be.”

“But what does your heart say?”

_No one is completely perfect. No one is completely healed._

_Maybe it’s about finding someone who can help you continue to heal yourself._

And Theon knows exactly what his heart says.

“I’m sorry,” he says and maybe Arya smiles. “For - well…”

“You should visit.” Arya sounds both dangerous and kind, a contradiction Theon can make no sense of, and it feels a lot familiar and completely comforting. “And I won’t bother to threaten you if you hurt her. I know you’ll do it for me.”

Arya hangs up and Theon knows she’s right.

  
  


_“And who claims this woman?”_

_Theon kicks a rock and sighs, but dutifully recites the correct response. “Theon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands and the heir to the Seastone Chair.”_

_Sansa frowns. “You need to sound more excited! You’re_ marrying _me, after all.” Adjusting her cloak, her braid falls to her shoulder. “And you’re a_ prince _, not a lord!” She clears her throat and lowers her voice. “Who claims this woman?”_

 _“Me, Theon Greyjoy,” repeats Theon, this time with a small smile, because despite the fact he’d rather be playing with Robb - who isn’t allowed outside until he’s finished with his homework - Robb’s little sister is kind of fun to play with._ “Prince _of the Iron Islands and heir to the Seastone Chair.”_

_“Much better,” she says, before walking towards him. She’s deliberately slow and Theon sighs again. Rolling her eyes, she quickens her pace._

_Too quick, apparently, because she trips over a rock._

_It happens in slow motion - the surprise on Sansa’s face, the silent yell that fails to leave Theon’s lip, the rocks cutting against her skin…_

_Theon blinks and Sansa slowly stands with scraped knees and bloody palms._

_“Are you okay?” he says, almost in a panic, voice cracking as he rushes towards her. “You’re bleeding, what do you need - let me get Cat or Ned or Robb - ”_

_“Theon.” Sansa smiles. “I’m fine, it’s just some scrapes.” Wincing, Sansa wipes away some rock dust from her hands. “It just stings a little.”_

_Theon shifts uncomfortably. The blood, possible bruises, scrapes and cuts and_ blood… _“You don’t want my help?”_

 _Sansa studies him and it makes Theon fidget some more. His hands disappear into his pockets. “Of course I want your help. I just don’t_ need _it. I’m fine.” Her head tilts and strands of red hair fall onto her face. “Why do you care so much all of a sudden?”_

 _His face feels warm. “I_ … _I wanna be a good husband,” he says quickly, kicking a rock out of the way and staring at his worn-down sneakers. His voice lowers and Sansa may step closer to hear him. “My - my dad isn’t good. Yours - yours is, though, and he takes care of your mum.” Clearing his throat, Theon straightens. “So I’m going to take care of you, too.”_

_Sansa doesn’t laugh or roll her eyes or squeal in that annoying way girls tend to do. Instead, she smiles, soft and kind and it makes him even warmer, especially when she leans forward and lightly kisses his cheek._

_When she runs back inside, leaving Theon staring after her, he almost forgets to wipe away the kiss._

  
  


When Sansa approaches Theon’s room again, her neck is stiff and the sun hasn’t quite risen. But Theon sits up in his bed and he doesn’t immediately kick her out again.

So she considers that progress.

Graviating to his side, her hand hovers over his cast. “That’s a pretty blue.”

“It reminds me of your eyes.”

Sansa knows her heart skips, just like as a little girl playing pretend, but she focuses on the ridges of the plaster instead. “I’m sorry for barging in last night - you didn’t need more stress on top of everything - ”

“I’m glad you’re here.” Theon’s broken hand awkwardly reaches for her, directing her chin to look at him. Part of him looks annoyed at the inconvenience of the cast and Sansa has to smile, just a little. “I’m sorry too.”

A heartbeat.

Sansa gently rests his hand back on the bed before swinging to the other side and climbing beside him. Wrapping her arms around Theon’s free one, she curls up against his side, arranging the blankets to cover them both before resting her head on his chest.

Theon leans into her hair. It’s there he speaks, the vibrations of his chest a gentle reminder that he’s _there_. “I was at a bar last night.” Sansa closes her eyes, listening to his voice, quiet and steady. “It - it’s hard, the memories and - and the cravings.” Theon sighs and his breath is warm against her skin. “I - I almost gave in.” When Sansa squeezes his arm, a physical reminder of her support, he kisses her hair. “But then I remembered - Yara... Yara cares about me. I still have her. And I have a job, or at least something that pays, and an apartment and a car and a dog - ”

“You have a dog?” 

Theon laughs. “Of course. I named him Greywind.”

Sansa looks up at him, surprised. “Like Robb always wanted.” His face falls, more serious, and she shakes her head. “He’d be so happy, Theon.” Her hand snakes up his arm, caresses his check. His stubble tickles, but it suits him. “He’d be so _proud_.”

“And that’s why I punched this bloke in the nose and broke my hand.”

Resting her forehead against his, hand still resting on his cheek, Sansa sighs. “You think you deserve the pain.” Capturing his eyes, her thumb draws spirals at the corner of his lips. “You don’t.”

Theon doesn’t agree - his eyes are loud with dissent - but he is silent, so Sansa considers this progress too.

“I published my first book last year.”

Theon smiles again. “I’ve read my copy five times. You’ll need to autograph it for me.”

“Sometimes, when - ” Her voice cracks and his free hand rests on her thigh. “I’ll - I’ll look up my book on the internet. I’ll read the bad reviews, specifically, to - to just - ”

“Hurt yourself.” Theon holds her hand that holds his face. Gently, he removes it, but only to twine their fingers together. Theon watches each finger interlace, fitted perfectly together. “It’s too hard to be just be happy sometimes.”

Their eyes meet. Sansa _gets it_ \- he understands too.

She turns, without separating their hands, and rests her head on his chest. 

They fall asleep together on that bed, curled up together.

**iv. i always rescue you, you always rescue me**

Theon wakes to Yara shaking him and whispering loudly in his ear. “Theon. Wake up.”

Groaning, Theon squints at his sister. “What?” It eventually comes back - the broken hand, the scattered hours of sleep… and Sansa, who stirs at his side, hand still tightly interlocked with his. “Oh.”

Sansa doesn’t let go of his hand. “Yara. Is Theon dismissed?”

Raising an eyebrow, Yara spares their joint hands a glance before shrugging. “He’s free to go.” She hesitates for a moment before addressing Theon pointedly. “I’ll give you two a moment. I’ll drive you to your apartment.”

When Yara disappears, Sansa laughs.

Sansa’s laugh has always been his favorite sound. It’s better than windchimes and guitar riffs and melodic lyrics set to drum rhythms. It’s his lullaby and his alarm, and his favorite song all at once.

And as she turns to him, still laughing, Theon almost wants to laugh with her. 

“After mum and dad and Robb all died,” she says, a bright smile on her face in contrast to the death in her words, “I needed to pick a new emergency contact.” Sansa shakes her head, but her smile is so wide Theon can’t help but mirror it. “Arya and Bran and Jon - I considered all of them. But then I thought, if I was in the same position as Robb… about to die… who would be strong enough to tell everyone else?” Theon feels his heart pounding harder, her smile softens, sending a shiver down his spine. “Your life hasn’t been - it’s been _hard,_ Theon. And yet…”

“Can I kiss you?”

Instead of answering, Sansa leans into his lips and captures them with her own. Kissing Sansa feels more like fixing the hole in his heart with concrete and plaster rather than patching it with cardboard and broken nails. It’s home and freedom and not quite salvation, but something even better.

It’s strength.

They separate, just a tiny bit, enough for Theon to search her eyes and memorize her expression. Her hand is still clutched tightly in his and he doesn’t feel like letting go. 

“I don’t just want to talk to you in the case of an emergency, Sansa.” His voice falters for a moment, but he continues despite his heart stuttering. “I want to call you when life is good, too. I want to share that with you - the happy, the sad, the angry, the hard. I want you in my _life_.”

The grin Sansa wears illuminates all the shadows in his head. “I want you in my life too, Theon.”

This time, Theon kisses her, squeezing her hand and twisting his hand through her hair. Sansa smiles into his lips and Theon kisses her harder.

She’s the thread and he’s the needle and together they begin to sew their hearts back together; imperfectly stitched and mostly uneven, but it’s enough. 

It’s enough to get by. 

And they’re okay with that.

  
  


_Sansa’s legs are thrown over his while he watches television, a new book in her hands._

_In the middle of a commercial for laundry detergent, Theon turns to her. “I want kids. Eventually.”_

_Lowering her book, Sansa tilts her head. Her red hair followers her movements, let loose and wild. “So do I.” Her smile is partly mischievous, mostly nervous, completely honest. “We should adopt some.”_

_And the words fall past Theon’s lips without any thought, but they sink into his bones and skin anyway, as if they were always meant to. “We have to get married first.”_

_“What are you doing Saturday morning?” For a moment, Theon wonders if she’s joking. But her eyes are glittering, her face completely serious, her book discarded and her hands resting on his thighs._

_So Theon grins._

_“Apparently, marrying you.”_

**Author's Note:**

> @leopoldfitz on tumblr and @ripsaras on twitter


End file.
